N.V. Morris By N.V. Morris
Sometimes, when I’m ignoring him, my cat brings me toys.
A glittery craft pom-pom. A tiny stuffed elephant. That dingy white catnip mouse whose tail
was lost to the dog. Whatever it is, he’ll plop it in my lap and complain until I touch it.
I’m not dumb enough to think his choice in toy means anything. He’s a cat; cats play with
whatever strikes their fancy, alive or dead.
Still, I can’t help but feel like mine was sending a message, dropping that bloodied finger on me.
N.V. Morris is a queer writer obsessed with the strange and bizarre. They’ve dedicated their life to wildlife conservation, public outreach, and scaring the crap out of people. They have a love for creepy-crawlies and share their room with far too many of them for their loved ones’ comfort.
Why we chose this piece: This piece is adorably unsuspecting with a dark twist that made us laugh out loud. Cheerfully bringing back a random finger is super on-brand for cats.
